Devil Takes A Bride (35 page)

She shook her head and paced his office, fingering the tassel of her reticule. “It's about Her Ladyship's will. I've—” She swallowed hard. “I've come to see if there is any possible way that Dev—I mean Lord Strathmore—can be freed from the terms of his aunt's will.”

He frowned. “I am not sure what to say, Miss Carlisle.”

“Oh, surely there must be a way. That money is rightfully his. He needs it. I certainly don't. This isn't fair to him.”

Charles looked mystified.

Lizzie decided there was no reason not to divulge the rest. “You see, his aunt asked me to look after him from time to time when she was gone. But I don't need half her fortune to do that.” She lowered her gaze, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I certainly don't need him to be forced into marrying me just so he can pay his bills.”

“You are…in love with him?” Charles asked in his most delicate lawyerly fashion.

“Very much,” she whispered, avoiding his eyes with a rueful nod. “I will never know how Devlin really feels about me as long as his fortune hangs in the balance. I'll never know for sure if it's the money or me that he loves.” She lifted her abashed gaze and saw Mr. Beecham studying her with a thoughtful stare. She gave him a hapless smile. “You must think me very foolish.”

“No, it's not that.”

“What, then?”

Mr. Beecham rose from his desk, slowly walked around it, then drummed his fingers a trifle nervously on the corner of it. He cleared his throat. “Did you discuss this at all with His Lordship, may I inquire?”

“No, I did not. We had a—tiff.”

“I see. Then perhaps you should speak to him first. I dare not speak out of turn.”

“Out of turn? Sir? I don't understand.”

He pursed his mouth and looked away with an air of distress. “He was supposed to tell you himself.”

“He hasn't told me anything.” Her alarm climbed. “Mr. Beecham, please. What is it? You must tell me! If it concerns me, I beg you—”

“Very well,” he soothed. “You may wish to sit down.”

“Tell me!” she cried, paling.

He cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth, then drew himself up. “I'm afraid, Miss Carlisle, that what you ask has already been done. Lady Strathmore's will, which you heard read in this office, has been nullified. Because no copy was submitted to the Chancery, the law provides that the previous will guide the disbursal of the deceased's belongings. The money all belongs to His Lordship, and he has known this fact for several weeks.”

“W-what?” Her heartbeat thundered.

“I am sorry that you must find out this way. He said he would tell you himself—when the time was right.”

“Why didn't he?” she cried, bewildered.

“Why, Miss Carlisle, he said that if you knew that he no longer needed to marry you in order to claim his inheritance, you might say no.”

She stared at him, her head reeling. She could barely find her voice. “You mean—?” she breathed.

“He loves you, Miss Carlisle. He's loved you all this time.”

 

“I am sorry, my lord,” the butler intoned, his face blank, for he was very well trained. “Miss Carlisle is not at home.”

Dev saw red. “Doubtless that is what you are ordered to say! Damn it, man, let me in! I know she is there. I must see her!”

“My lord—”

“I will not be denied!” Dev went on the offensive, shoved the butler aside and prowling into the house. He threw his head back, howling her name. “Lizzie!
Lizzie!
”

“Sir!”

“Where is she? Where are you hiding her?”

“She is not here! Sir, you must go.”

“She has gone out?” he demanded warily.

“Yes, as I have already said!”

“With Lord Alec?” he asked in a dangerous tone.

“I know not.”

“Nor would you tell me,” Dev muttered. “Fine, then. I shall wait.” Jerking his arm away from the butler, he sat down heavily on the stairs, where his bleary gaze searched the polished floor.
I can't be too late.
But somehow it was all too easy to imagine the happy foursome—Lizzie and Alec, Jacinda and her Billy—out celebrating their future kinship. They were probably making wedding plans already, and as usual, he ended up alone.

Elbow resting on his bent knee, Dev shut his eyes in welling despair and propped his forehead in his hand.

He had tried to give up. Had tried to keep his distance. Had tried for four days, nine hours, and seven minutes to relinquish her to what was best for Lizzie, but again and again, he kept coming back to his awful fear, that if he left her to Alec's keeping, Alec would only hurt her again and again for the rest of her life. For if a man strayed once from his lady, he would do it again. It wasn't fair. Not when she was so loyal.

“Sir?” Jacinda's butler bent down and gazed into Dev's careworn face with a compassion that surprised him. “Can I fetch you something, my lord? Tea? Brandy? A headache powder, perhaps?”

Dev regarded him ruefully. There was only one thing he wanted, but he was fairly sure it was already lost.

At that moment, she walked in through the front door, halting when she saw him sitting on the staircase in an attitude of defeat. But Alec wasn't with her. She was alone.

Like him.

Dev shot to his feet, trembling suddenly as he held her dazed stare. “Lizzie.” His voice came out in a whisper.

The butler vanished instinctively, leaving the two of them alone.

Lizzie blinked as though she feared he was a vision.

He stepped down off the stairs.

She walked warily into the foyer and closed the door behind her. “You're here.”

“Yes.” Dev swallowed hard and took a few more steps toward her, closing the distance between them. “I've been waiting…. I need—to talk to you. I have so much to tell you—if you'll listen. I'm sorry for getting you fired. I didn't come before because I was—trying to do the right thing, but without you, everything feels all wrong. I—can't let you go.” His palms sweated as he crumpled the brim of his hat in his hands.
I don't want to lose you.
“Alec's a good man. No doubt of that. But not for you. He'll only hurt you again the moment he grows restless. I don't want to see you hurt. Please—just listen. It's true I am a member of that club, but I can explain everything if you'll listen, and there's something I need to show you before you decide.”

“What is it?”

His pride crawled, but he was past caring as he stood before her. “I want to show you what I can give you if you—pick me. You said you never had a home of your own. Well, my Uncle Jacob—Aunt Augusta's husband—was the one who nearly ruined the family, which was why he had to marry her fortune in the first place. The thing he spent it all on was his house, Oakley Park. It's—magnificent, Lizzie. It's yours if you want it. And so am I.”

“Oh, darling,” she whispered, shaking her head at him with tears in her eyes.

“I've been keeping secrets, Lizzie. But now I want to tell you everything. Just tell me that I haven't lost you, because if I have, I no longer want to live—”

“Shh.”

He had not realized they were close enough to touch until she suddenly lifted her hand and laid her finger over his lips, stilling the anguished tumble of his words with a soothing hush.

“I've already told Alec no, Devlin,” she whispered. “And as to your secrets, I already know the most important thing. You see, I've just come from Mr. Beecham's office. I know about your aunt's will. Oh, Devlin.” Her dove-gray eyes swam with emotion as she searched his gaze. “I love you, too.”

He gasped at the words, or perhaps it was a sob, but her gentle arms wound around his neck. She drew him down to kiss her, and he surrendered with all his heart, all his being.

With trembling hands, he caught her sweet face between his palms and kissed her with tears burning behind his closed eyelids. He realized she was crying, too, when he felt the hot droplets of her tears fall upon his hands as he held her face so lovingly. She clung to him.

“Marry me,” he choked out, barely pausing long enough to let her whisper, “Yes, yes,” before kissing her again and again.

“Come away with me. Tonight.”

“Yes.”

“To Oakley Park. I want to show you.”

“Anywhere.”

“We can be there in three hours. I love you.”

“Devlin.” She held him hard, burying her tearstained face against his neck. “I love you, too, sweet. With all my heart.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Euphoria tingled in their veins as they raced through the night, glorious and strong beneath the moonlight, her hair flying as she drove the carriage, his hand resting on her waist as he coached her at the reins and murmured love words in her ear, wicked silken promises that sent shivers of anticipation down every nerve ending and made her drive faster.

With nary a cloud in the sky, a big gibbous moon hung over the blowing trees; its white liquid light lined the black Fresians' supple backs. The fleet cadence of their hoofbeats drummed the dusty road. The deep twilight rang with cricket song, a secret world of silver moon-glow and wan gold globes of light from the carriage lamps.

Her heel firmly braced against the footboard, the leather reins taut in her hands, Lizzie needed nothing more than faith and instinct and Devlin at her side, urging her on; she sped the coach-and-four along with a reckless daring she could only have learned from him.

At the halfway point, they took a break to rest the horses; then Ben took over the driving, and Devlin and Lizzie climbed inside the coach. For the next hour, he told her of his quest, explaining his real motives for associating with the Horse and Chariot Club and recounting all the steps he had taken to unearth the truth so far, tracing each move as though it were some deadly chess game.

Lizzie marveled at what she heard.

“November 1805. The place was called The Golden Bull. 'Twas a coaching inn on the Oxford Road just below Uxbridge. Between the travelers in the guestrooms, the large staff, and the local people drinking in the pub, it took the coroner weeks to reconstruct a complete list of all the people who were in the place that night. The fire was so fierce that it left several bodies too badly damaged to be identified, and the guest register had burned along with the hotel, so they had to use what records remained from the inn's livery stable, which was untouched, and the way bills of various stagecoach companies whose drivers had traversed their usual route that night. In the end, the number of the dead rose to forty-seven.” His stare was brooding, a dangerous note of hate-filled grief creeping into his voice. “They never found my little sister's body.”

She caressed his back, trying to give comfort. “You don't have to tell me all this if it's too painful.”

“No. It all ties back to the Horse and Chariot Club, and I want you to know the reason for my association with such men.” He stared at her for a long moment. “I mean to prove that some of them were there that night and deliberately set that fire. When my more conventional investigation of my family's deaths ran aground some months ago, I saw no other way to move forward except by joining the club so I could study the bastards.”

“How did you ever realize they might be involved?”

“Through a very long, slow process of meticulous analysis. You forget, my travels were partly scientific expeditions. I am used to the art of observation and objectively collecting facts. My father's influence,” he added softly. “He was a gifted amateur biologist, forever peering into his microscope. Quite obsessed, I'm afraid, with discovering the mysteries of freshwater eels.”

Lizzie smiled in fond amusement.

“He would have liked you.” Devlin let out a great sigh. “For two years, I've been gathering evidence, ruling out alternative possibilities. I'm so close to the truth now. I can feel it.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you'd best start at the beginning, love.”

He smiled. He should have known he could rely on Lady Logic to verify his theorem. “That's my girl,” he murmured. Suddenly, he was glad he was sharing all of this with her, not just for the sake of harmony between them, but for practical reasons, as well. Intelligent as she was, his little bluestocking might catch something he had overlooked.

“My first step was collecting all the documentation associated with the case—fire inspector's report, coroner's rulings, newspaper clippings, obituaries for each person who died that night in the blaze. The second step was more difficult—trying to track down any survivors. There were only a handful of them, and you may believe my suspicions grew apace when I found that a number of them had died under mysterious circumstances over the course of the year or two after the fire. As if fate was picking them off.

“Of particular interest was the cook's supposed suicide. According to the fire inspector, the blaze at The Golden Bull had started in the kitchen. As the head of the kitchen staff, the cook was responsible for everyone and everything that happened in his domain, including the fire. His ‘suicide' seemed to acknowledge his guilt for the tragedy.”

“Indeed.”

“But one of the most useful witnesses I was able track down—Tom Doolittle, who had been the kitchen haul-boy at the time—was the cook's nephew. Claims his uncle was a jolly, churchgoing fellow who would never have taken his own life even under those circumstances.”

“Do you mean to say you think the cook was actually—murdered?”

“And his death staged to look like suicide.”

“But why?” she exclaimed.

“Because he was a highly credible man—and that fire never started in his kitchen.”

“Where did it start?” she asked, mystified.

“Outside, around the perimeter of the building. But you won't find that fact written in the fire inspector's official report. It is recorded only in the first version. The version he decided to revise when he began receiving anonymous death threats.”

“Dear Lord.”

“He did not want to talk to me. He is retired now and tried to say he had little memory of the case. But I finally wore him down.”

“Yes, you have a talent for such things, my lord.”

He sent her a pointed glance. “The official report on record, submitted by this old inspector, states that the fire was accidental and started in the kitchen. Fortunately, being a man of more conscience than courage, he saved a copy of his first report, the version of what happened written immediately after his walk-through of the site. This older version he allowed me to read. In it, he makes the case for arson. His findings were based on the even rate of speed at which the building had burned down on all sides, as though it had been tarred around the edges, or oil poured around the perimeter.”

“So there was no way the poor people trapped inside could run to escape.”

He nodded grimly. “Even more damning, a few of the iron shutter-latches had been found among the rubble with the teeth still locked together.”

She stared at him in shock. “My God, that means someone…would have to have locked the people in, then intentionally burned the place to the ground. Why? Why would someone do something so evil to scores of strangers?”

“To cover up another crime, I believe—an act that he deemed even worse.” He paused. “At any rate, whoever was behind the anonymous threats to the fire inspector instructed him to say that it had been a kitchen fire. In fear of his life, the old man falsified his report accordingly. Shortly after the kitchen-fire report came out, the cook was found in an apparent suicide. This seemed very much like an admission of guilt; case closed.”

“So, whoever threatened the fire inspector also got rid of the cook,” Lizzie deduced.

He nodded. “Back to our kitchen haul-boy. Though he was only nine years old at the time, Tom Doolittle gave me the most significant clue of all. Naturally, it cost me a plum to bribe it out of him,” he added cynically. “It seems the scullery maid had sent Tom out to fetch water from the pump, and that, he claims, was when he heard the gunshot.”

“Gunshot?” Lizzie whispered, her eyes widening.

“Voices arguing from somewhere up on the second-floor gallery. Tom heard a man yell, ‘Shut up, you Irish whore!'—then a single gunshot.”

She stared at him in somber amazement.

“Now, if someone had gotten shot that night,” Dev continued, “it could possibly have shown up in one of the coroner's summaries.”

“That sounds logical.”

“But there was no mention of any bullet anywhere. Of course, one tiny lead ball could have easily been missed. Or—”

“The coroner was receiving death threats, too.”

“Bravo,” he murmured with a grim half-smile. “A pity he and the fire inspector never saw fit to confide their mental tortures to a living soul, but the killer was surely counting on their terror to keep them silent. The coroner refused to speak with me; you may be interested to know I was unable to break him down. But apparently our conversation preyed on his mind for days after. A week later, I received a file by messenger. When I inquired, the servant told me that his master had packed up and left the country, but at least he had sent me the information that had been suppressed for over a decade. Sure enough, as it turned out, one of the bodies had indeed been found with a gunshot wound to the chest.”

“Whose?” she whispered, not sure she wanted to know.

Dev paused. “My father's.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She gazed at him in pain.

He did not speak for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Someone in the hotel that night shot my father, then—I believe—burned the hotel down to hide the crime.”

“That rude shout about an Irish woman that the haul-boy heard from the upper gallery—you told me your mother was Irish. Do you think both your parents were somehow targeted?”

“That's exactly what I wondered when Tom first told me what he'd heard. My mother was a lady, but I'll tell you, she never backed down from an argument if she saw something she didn't like.”

“But who would do such a thing? Who would burn forty-seven people alive to hide the death of one?”

“Not just any one: A viscount. My father was a quiet, gentle man, but everyone who knew him loved him. The whole aristocracy held him in high esteem. Whoever killed him must have realized who he was, perhaps after the fact. But as far as I knew, it could have been anyone—another guest, an employee, or someone drinking in the pub.”

“What about brigands, highwaymen in the area? The coaching roads are often plagued with them.”

“I thought of that. I checked with the landlords of the other posting inns on that stretch of road, but they had no criminal activity to report. There was only one thing left to do: I started at the top of the list and began looking into the background of every person on it, searching for clues, anything suspicious. Past criminal records. Anything. It was a long, long process of elimination.”

“It must have taken ages.”

“Over a year—and many more bribes. There was one name on the list that I could not make heads or tails of: Mrs. Mary Harris. I could find nothing on this woman. She had come in on one of the stagecoaches. No one knew her; there was no record of her existence that I could locate. Do you have any idea how many women there are in this world named Mary Harris? A lot,” he said flatly.

She smiled. “I suppose there must be. It was thanks to a Mrs. Harris that I lost my post at the school. That was the outraged parent the headmistress mentioned to you.”

“Ah, yes,” he said in chagrin. “Well, there you have it. Every Mary Harris I traced was either alive and well, or not a Mrs. I was beginning to think it was a case of mistaken identity. At any rate, I was following a lead on number thirty-two on my long list of the dead, a Mr. James Cox, blacksmith from a nearby village, a regular at The Golden Bull's taproom. He had been drinking there that night and met the same horrible fate as the rest.

“In the course of looking into the blacksmith's life, I was able to track down one of his old drinking mates from the pub and ask him a few questions—an old navvy by the name of Jackson. Earlier that evening, before the fire was set, Jackson was actually in the pub with Cox and the rest of their circle. He left early because he had apparently promised his wife he would lay off the bottle. It was a promise that saved his life.”

“Indeed.”

“As Jackson tells it, the whole pub was abuzz that night because one of their drinking mates called Wiley had spotted a woman in the lobby that he swore was the famous London stage actress, Ginny Highgate. Wiley was sure it was her, even though the woman he saw was wearing a veil. He had seen her in some Extravaganza Water Spectacle at Ranelagh Gardens. He asserted that she was probably trying to disguise herself to hide her fame. Are you still with me?”

She nodded. “Go on.”

“The name Ginny Highgate was not on my list, so I realized that this Mary Harris might have been an alias the actress was using to avoid being recognized and mobbed by adoring men. Because Miss Highgate had signed in under a false name, to this day, I do not know if her family is even aware that she died in that fire. To them, she would simply have…disappeared.”

Lizzie stared at him in intense thought. “Women who join the theater world are often disowned by their families.”